


The Eye of the Storm

by wagamiller



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a storm brewing over Nanda Parbat.</p>
<p>Standing on the balcony of Oliver’s quarters, watching the dark clouds rolling relentlessly towards her, Felicity mutters, “typical.”</p>
<p>A 3x20 fic, inspired by <i>that</i> promo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially - I think I watched the gifs of the promo so many times that I got kind of fixated on the balcony and the storm clouds behind them? So yeah, this happened. Smut, basically. With a side of feelings.
> 
> Obviously spoilers/speculation-y stuff for the general direction of events that the promo suggests, if somehow you haven't seen it already.
> 
> Thanks to MachaSWicket for looking this over and encouraging me to post :)

* * *

 

There’s a storm brewing over Nanda Parbat.

Standing on the balcony of Oliver’s quarters, watching the dark clouds rolling relentlessly towards her, Felicity mutters, “typical.”

She rests her hip against the cool stone of the doorway and absently buttons up the loose sides of Oliver’s shirt around her naked chest, her eyes not leaving the horizon. It’s dark still, night turning the grey clouds black, but somewhere beyond the mountains the sun is waiting to rise.

And when it does, he’ll have to go.

Instinctively, she glances back over her shoulder, looking for him. The candles have burnt right down, turning the room into a collection of shadows and unfamiliar shapes but she’d know Oliver anywhere, in any light or none at all.

He’s lying where she left him, his arm stretched out across her empty side of the bed, one hand moving restlessly against the sheets. It’s too dark and too far without her glasses to see clearly but her mind fills in the nervous roll of his fingers anyway. She wonders if he’s dreaming of the bow that she gave him, the one that he’ll probably never hold again. Ra’s will give him a bow, but it won’t be that one. It won’t be _theirs._

Felicity blinks furiously against a sudden surge of tears, reminding herself that there are at least some things that Ra’s al Ghul can’t take from them. He has taken their mission and their future and too many of their friends, but he can’t have this.

He can’t have tonight.

She smiles at the storm clouds until Oliver’s voice drifts out to her, anxious and rough with sleep. “Felicity?”

And just like that, she realises that he wasn’t dreaming at all.

He was reaching for her.

Her heart lurches, the smile falling right off her face.

“I’m here,” she murmurs, turning to silhouette herself in the doorway where he can see her. “I’m right here.”

Oliver lets out a ragged sigh of relief and rolls over onto his back, lifting himself up on his elbows to look at her.

“Hey,” he says quietly, in that soft voice he saves for her alone.  

A flush creeps across her cheeks and down, blossoming over her chest because she knows every inflection of that gentle voice now, knows it hot and low against the shell of her ear, and high and desperate against her lips while he moves inside her.

“Hey,” she repeats dumbly, grateful to the darkness for sparing her blushes.

Oliver’s bare chest is all gentle ridges and soft edges but it’s only a trick of the failing candlelight. She pressed her trembling mouth to every hard line of him tonight and he is strong muscle and firm skin and _hers_ , completely.

Until the sun rises.

A sudden flash of panic makes her turn to the sky again but there’s no hint of red on the horizon yet, only darkness. The wind that had woken her, rattling the heavy doors and creaking their hinges, surges and then drops away until there’s barely enough left to lift the loose hair around her face. Exhaling shakily, she leans her arms on the balustrade and turns her face into the collar of Oliver’s shirt, finding the scent that calms her racing heart.

That same scent overwhelming her senses is the only sign of Oliver’s silent approach. Felicity straightens up, leaning back into the solid plane of his chest with a sigh that he matches with one of his own, a huff of hot breath against her neck.

“Did the storm wake you?” Oliver asks quietly, winding one arm around her waist to pull her even closer to him, the tail of her shirt and his underwear the only barrier between them.

She nods, looking down at the hand resting on her stomach, the same hand that effortlessly spanned half her waist, that held her hips tight enough to leave a bruise but parted her knees with only a featherlight touch.

It should feel strange, this shift between them. Her in his shirt. His bare chest against her back. The ache between her legs. She should be nervous and awkward and god, so _sad_ because there’s a deadline on all of this too, no time for new to melt into familiar. But she can’t find those feelings anywhere. She is only warm and glad, every piece of her held together when by rights she should be falling apart.

“We had storms like this on Lian Yu,” Oliver murmurs, his voice a rough whisper into her hair. “I learned to sleep through them.”

“So why are you up?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“You weren’t beside me,” he says simply, pressing a brief kiss to her hair.

He says it honestly, no hint of reproach or sorrow, but she feels a sudden twist of longing anyway. Tomorrow. Tomorrow and the next day and the next. She won’t be beside him.

“I was just gonna shut these doors but I got distracted by the storm,” Felicity says, chattering to fill the suddenly heavy silence. “And the view.” She waves a hand at the dark expanse of the mountains around them. “Your kingdom. Everything the light touches, isn’t that how it works?”

Oliver huffs a half-laugh.

She twists her head round to shoot him a look. “Wait - don’t tell me you actually got that reference?”

“I have a younger sister, don’t I?” he points out, his voice cracking a little on the familiar word, the reminder of why they’re here.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly, running a comforting hand over his arm where it rests against her stomach. “You do.”

“Besides,” he goes on haltingly, “it’s still dark.” The effort involved in keeping his voice level makes his chest tremble, rattling a tremor right through to hers. “Nothing here is mine yet.”

“I am.”

Her voice is quiet and strained, almost swallowed up by the wind, but he hears her all the same. His hand, which had been idly playing with the collar of her shirt, stops dead.

“Felicity.”

All the breath in his body rushes out with her name, raising a trail of goosebumps along her neck. She takes a sudden sharp breath, closing her eyes against the memory of his tongue, rough and hot against the skin there earlier. As if he’s sensing her thoughts, Oliver leans down, nudging her hair aside with his nose to press a soft kiss to the raised skin there. The gentle touch doesn’t soothe, only makes her hiss and arch her neck for more.

With his other arm still wound around her waist, he holds her firmly against his chest, the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against her. She drops her hand to clutch at the back of his thigh, her nails digging in.

“Let’s not give the sentries a floorshow,” she whispers, pushing back against him until he stumbles them backwards into the shadows of the room, still holding her tight to his chest.

She says it casually enough but at the reminder of where they are, Oliver hesitates slightly, the arm around her stomach tightening ever so slightly.

“Don’t,” she says, closing a warning hand around his wrist. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry.”

“But–”

“Be sorry tomorrow,” she asks, taking his hand from her collar and pulling it down slowly, to the swell of her breast. “When you’re Ra’s al Ghul.”

When his hand moves, cupping her through the fabric of the shirt, she releases her hold and reaches for where his other hand still sits unmoving against her stomach.

“Don’t be sorry tonight,” she repeats softly, taking his hand and dragging it slowly and deliberately down to where the edge of his shirt brushes her thighs. “Just be Oliver.”

Oliver stops breathing, just for a moment, the rise and fall of his chest stopping behind her. His hands freeze, one a warm weight against her chest through the fabric of the shirt, the other flat against her bare thigh.

She’s breathing enough for both of them, her chest heaving, the fabric of his shirt harsh against her peaked nipples.

“Please.”

The word shatters his resolve.

He groans her name, his lips dropping to her neck to suck an open mouthed kiss along the underside of her jaw. She hums her approval and he drops his lips to her throat, right over the sound. When his hand moves from her chest, she grumbles a strung out, dissatisfied sound, arching her back to look for the pressure of his palm again. Then his hand lands on the centre of the shirt, undoing some of the buttons and oh fuck, he’s a fucking genius and she might have said that out loud because he laughs, breath hot against her neck, when he finally slips the shirt off one of her shoulders and lowers his mouth to the scar there.

His hand closes over her breast again, skin against skin this time, his calloused hands providing a delicious friction as he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She buckles slightly, her knees giving out in a way she honestly thought only happened in old movies, and starts to turn towards him. Oliver growls, actually _growls_ , his disapproval and drops his hand to bind around her waist again, holding her tightly against his chest. She moans, a desperate, breathy sound of delight and frustration, because he’s _everywhere_ and she can’t touch him. She reaches blindly behind her for any part of him, grabbing at his ass and finding only thin cotton where she wanted bare skin. She huffs a disappointed noise and he laughs, soft and low into her ear, pressing his erection harder against her back.

Oliver’s drops his hand back to her thigh but even as she’s practically vibrating with need for him, his hand doesn’t land where she wants it.

_Oh,_ but it dances.

Up and down. Left to right. Featherlight touches and lazy circles and god, she’s going to explode if he doesn’t touch her properly. Right now.

“Please,” she bites out, trying the same plea from earlier.

“Say my name,” he says quietly, hand now hovering over her hipbone.

He’s hardly the first man to ask but he’s the first to make a tremor run through her, right down to her brightly painted toes, when he does. This isn’t a demand, isn’t some power play to stroke his ego. He’s the one begging.

Tomorrow they will take this name away from him.

“Oliver,” she whispers, throat tight.

The second she names him, his hand finally dips lower, finding the wet heat of her centre. She’s so wet already, ready from the moment he walked up behind her and maybe even before, maybe since the moment she slipped his shirt over her nakedness in the dark room. A possessive sound rumbles up from his chest because it’s all for him and he knows it.

“Oliver.”

His other arm bands tighter around her stomach, holding her up while his thumb presses steady circles against her clit.

“Oliver.”

The moment he presses one long finger inside her, he tilts his head and nips at the industrial piercing in her ear, tugging gently with his teeth. She whimpers, pathetic and desperate but there’s no time for embarrassment because he groans at the sound, his whole body weakening, his knees dipping into the back of hers for a moment.

“Bed,” he grits out, removing his hand and spinning her round so fast that she stumbles, her hands flying up to steady herself on his chest. His shadowed gaze snaps to her hands on him, pale and small against his broad chest. He swallows, hard. “Now.”

Felicity pushes him, an ineffectual pressure against the muscles under her hands, but he obeys anyway, walking backwards to the bed without breaking her gaze. When his legs hit the bed, he stops, dipping his head to kiss her. He misses her lips in the darkness, landing somewhere to the side before sliding to her open mouth, groaning when her tongue finds his. It’s desperate, messy, and undignified and god, she can’t quite believe that Oliver Queen could ever kiss this chaotically, ever lose control quite like this. Because of her. The desperate pressure of his lips, the helpless jerk of his hips, it’s all for her.

She clutches at him, her hands roaming over his biceps and then under his arms to his back, raking her nails over the strong muscles there until he groans into her open mouth. When she pushes him, trying to encourage him down onto the bed, he resists, breaking the kiss to close his hands over her shoulders and spin them so that her back is to the bed instead.

She snaps her gaze up to him, questioning, but he just smiles and shakes his head, the fondness in his smile a sharp contrast to the darkness in his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, his hands fall to her shirt, which is still hanging off one of her shoulders. He leans forward, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to her exposed collarbone while his hands work on the buttons until the loose sides fall open.

Even in the flickering, fading light, he can see all of her now, every flaw, every swell of skin that she wishes was smoother. His eyes roam over her, the affectionate smile never leaving his face and she finds, to her surprise, that she is not ashamed. There is nothing but reverence in Oliver’s eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he says softly.

She’s said the same earlier, whispered it like a secret against one of the scars on his shoulder. She smiles at the memory, raising up on her tiptoes to press her smiling lips against his. Oliver sighs into the kiss, running his tongue over the seam of her lips until she opens her mouth to his.

“Felicity,” he says quietly, pulling back and closing his hands over the loose sides of her shirt. “Sit down.”

With a gentle pressure, he directs her to sit at the edge of the bed. The wind picks up outside, and she flicks her gaze around him to see the storm clouds moving again, swirling towards the fortress.

When she flicks her eyes back to him, he’s kneeling at her feet.

She feels her eyes blow wide. “What’re you doing?” she says wildly, because her mouth can’t be trusted to just shut up and let this happen.

Oliver just smiles, running his hands up her legs to her knees and gently, ever so gently, pushing them apart.

“I want to taste you,” he says quietly, looking up at her from between her legs.

And _oh_ , she almost comes from that alone.

“Is that ok?” he asks, as his thumbs rub gentle circles over the soft skin above her knees.

“You’re kidding me, right?” she whispers, laughing softly and letting the top half of her body fall back against the bed.

“Felicity?” Oliver says, resting his cheek against the inside of her thigh for a moment.

She closes her eyes, arching her back slightly and it’s not fair, not remotely fair that just the touch of his stubble against her skin can be having this much of an effect on her.

Still he doesn’t move.

“You want me to beg?” she grumbles, very half-heartedly, “because I’m totally _not_ above that y’know.”

“Just tell me what you want,” Oliver says, so close to her centre that she feels his breath rush over her.

“I want you to touch me,” she requests quietly. “Oliver.”

His name is a catalyst, just as she knew it would be.

A sound rumbles up from his chest, desperate and possessive and the single hottest thing she’s ever heard. He grabs at her hips, hauling her forward to him and then he lowers his mouth to her, his tongue licking one straight, perfect line from her entrance to her clit.

“Like that?” he says quietly, and fuck, he’s so fucking earnest, so desperate to please her.

“God, Oliver,” she bites out, closing her fingers over the sheets. “ _Yes._ Like that.”

He closes his lips around her clit, sucking and then pulling back, letting the cool air rush in over the wetness there.

“Oliver,” she repeats his name again and he rewards her with a desperate hum of approval before dipping his tongue inside her.

Her hips buck, quite beyond her control and god, she swears she can feel him smiling against her at her wild movements. He throws up one heavy arm, anchoring her to the bed and she reaches for it, clinging on for a second to stop herself reaching for his head while he tastes her, his tongue now circling her clit with just the right pressure.

Somewhere in the tiny, ever decreasing space in her mind that is still capable of rational thought, she spares a moment to realise that he’s good at this. Like, fucking amazing at this. And she almost laughs, actually has to bite her lip to stop the giggle bursting out because, _of course he is_. Of course, he’s good at this.

And in an ideal world, she’d last longer than a couple of minutes. But by the time he adds his thumb, rubbing dangerously slow circles around her clit while his tongue dips into her entrance, screw it, she’s already half gone. She lets him know by the stutter in her voice as she bites out his name, once, twice, three more times, more strained and desperate every time.

“Oliver,” she comes on the sound of his name, her orgasm rippling through her, arching her back right off the bed.  

Oliver hums his approval, riding out the feeling for her, bringing her down slowly. Then he pulls away, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and fuck, if that casual move doesn’t send a little tremor through her, a delicious aftershock that makes her gasp.

Oliver sits back on his heels, grinning up at her.

“Oh don’t look so smug,” she grumbles, sitting up on her elbows and failing spectacularly at looking displeased. “That orgasm was three years in the making.”

That only makes him smile wider, until he’s a god damn beam of light in the dark room. He stands up, tall and broad before the bed, a light source silhouetted against the dark clouds outside.

She scoots backwards, dragging her boneless limbs up the bed until her head lands on the pillows. “Come here,” she instructs, crooking her finger at him. “I’m not done with you yet.”

She waits until he’s hovering above her, his knee between her legs, his arms braced either side of her, before she says the honest truth. A whisper against his lips, “I’ll never be done with you.”

Thunder claps outside, the storm finally breaking over the mountain, and Oliver’s lip trembles ever so slightly before he leans down and kisses her.

She can taste herself on his tongue, but tomorrow’s there too, the sadness and the weight of all that’s coming.

“Hey,” she says, pulling back and placing her hands either side of his face. “I love you, ok? No matter what.”

Oliver blinks, his troubled face smoothing out into something close to peaceful.

“I love you.” He says it like a promise, not a farewell and _oh_ , she loves him all the more for that.

Felicity smiles, pushing ever so gently against Oliver’s chest in a wordless request for him to roll over. He obeys, moving onto his back with only a quirk of his eyebrows in question. When he’s lying beside her she sits up and leans over, pressing a kiss against the first scar she sees. He hums a contented noise that turns a little strangled when she moves south, trailing featherlight kisses as she goes.

“My turn,” she says, licking a gentle line along the hollow of the cut of muscle at his hip.

“Felicity–” he says, his voice ragged.

She stops, leaning her chin against his abs and looking up at him. “I want to taste you,” she tells him simply, repeating his own words back to him.

Oliver groans, his eyes slipping shut for a second.

“Is that ok?” she adds sweetly, arching an eyebrow as her fingers reach the edge of his underwear, where his cock is straining against the fabric.

He nods, so she lowers her hand to palm him through his underwear. He hisses, his hips bucking slightly into her touch. Taking advantage of the angle, she eases his boxers down and off, tossing them aside with a flourish that’s maybe a little more theatrical than necessary.

Oliver laughs at that, but the sound dies the second she takes his hard length in her hand.

“Felicity,” he groans her name, and she grins wickedly up at him.

She’s still smiling when she lowers her mouth over his cock.

Because dawn is coming, as surely as death or taxes but _oh_ , it’s not here yet.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
